


When There's a Fire (Let It Burn)

by Amelinda



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dystopia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelinda/pseuds/Amelinda
Summary: Harry Potter thought he was born to be a rebel fighter—it was in his blood, his upbringing, his destiny. But after securing an executive spot in a guerrilla commando, and becoming a little too close to higher up Tom Riddle, Harry discovers there's more to the war than he was led to believe, and more to life than he ever knew.





	When There's a Fire (Let It Burn)

The Revelation of 1957 was the end of an era.

The end of secrecy, the end of sovereignty.

It was a time for Britain to begin anew.

*** 

**Spring 2009**

The bobbies were on patrol again, their sirens whirring throughout Leamouth beneath a deep, amplified voice: _The Dark Hour curfew is now in effect. We urge you to remain calm. The Dark Hour curfew is now in effect. We urge you to remain calm._ Harry watched the daily affair from his upper-story container unit, smirking. Drivers left cars vacant to run indoors. Anxious mummies shuffled with their children in tow. Shop clerks lowered their blinds. The baseless belief that dark wizards were at their most powerful on the thirteenth hour of the day was rumored some decades ago by the zealots, and like all phenomenally daft beliefs that goad fear, it gained traction.

“Bloody tosspots,” Ron muttered.

“Yeah, well,” Harry dismissed, sliding a wooden panel over the window with a makeshift rope pulley. The sound of the outdoor Muggle-mania ceased at once. “At least we’ve got Noise-Repellant Charms.”

He turned away from that all that bollocks, retrieved his pocketed poniard, and threw it with a jerk toward the inner-ring of a levitating corkboard target. It stuck precisely in the center.

The entire level of their unit was accoutered with similar objectives, from sparring dummies to wooden archery blocks. On the only windowless wall, a collection of timeworn weapons floated beside corrugated metal—sickles and parasols, blunted katanas, a range of bows.

“Phoenix feather core,” Harry stated, summoning the dagger by outstretching his hand. In a snap, it soared across the room to the hand of its master. “Nothing else works like it.”

“I dunno.” Ron deftly twirled a small sabre between his fingers. “Unicorn suits me better, mate.” He smiled darkly. “Not that it takes much to give the Muggles a right scare, anyhow.”

After snorting in agreement, Harry tossed the poniard straight up and held his hands, palms out, locking it against the tug of gravity. He identified a focal point—the glint of candlelight flickering on its sheen steel—and loosened his muscles. It was Dumbledore’s own technique, and a bloody good one after you got the hang of it. An old runic text he skimmed referred to wandless levitation as the mark of a master. (That was probably truer in those days than it was for Harry’s generation, who hadn’t the luxury of learning proper magic.)

Slowly, Harry attempted to lower the dagger to the ground, managing to meet his goal halfway before relenting. It fell with a loud _clang_. “Reckon I’ll be older than Dumbledore before I can do half of what Hermione can with levitation.”

“Come on, Harry,” Ron said, crossing his arms and shaking his head admonishingly. “Don’t talk like that. You’ll be dead long before you’re anywhere near Dumbledore’s age.”

Neither dared to laugh at that. All things considered, Harry was lucky to be 22.

“So,” Ron started, casually scratching his bright orange mop, “when d’you reckon Dumbledore’s new guy’s gonna get here?”

“I dunno. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Harry glanced down at his wristwatch. Ten after the thirteenth hour, and fifty minutes until the digital carillons would sing the tune of _Saved by Grace_. He hated the wretched song, hated how the Muggles thought hiding behind thin, magicless walls guaranteed their safety from sorts like himself. With a wand, it would take little more than a few elementary incantations to condemn their privet-hedged houses into the apocalypse they all so eagerly anticipated. But the odds were stacked; eight million Muggle Londoners—protected by the Minister’s so-called _light_ wizards—against three thousand wandless outcasts? It wasn’t much of a comparison.

He lifted his poniard, spun it ‘round the blade, then pinched the tip and aimed his strike at the hay-stuffed head of a faux Muggle. However, at precisely the same moment, there cracked the distinct and unsettling noise of Apparition.

“NO!”

At the last possible moment, just when there was no second left for him to retract his dagger, Dumbledore and his guest appeared in the crossfire, their bodies idle, the sharp point spiraling _with increasing speed toward the —_

“Bloody hell,” the guest swore, snatching the leather handle with inhuman reflexes. Harry inhaled sharply. Dangling the poniard, the man arched a dark brow at Harry. “I do hope this was an accident.”

Harry shook his head apologetically. “Bad timing, sir.”

"Sir?” the man parroted, smirking. “Promotion does come with its benefits, doesn’t it, Dumbledore?”

Distracted by the guest, Harry forgot to greet Dumbledore, his leader. He turned and bowed his head slightly to the wizened man, saying, “Thank you for coming, Dumbledore. I, er, like your new robes.”

"Ah, do you?” he asked kindly, patting the star-patterned fabric, his wrinkled blue eyes gleaming. “Young Tom here picked them out.”

The guy, Tom, pursed his lips. “That, I should clarify, was a joke.”

That much seemed obvious enough to Harry. Tom didn’t look the type of bloke who’d advertise Dumbledore’s eccentricities. He seemed a true Englishman, all well-dressed in pewter robes, sporting coffered black ringlets and high cheeks that slanted across glowing white skin. Handsome, really.

Dumbledore smiled. “Allow an old man his amusement. Nevertheless, I do have important matters to discuss. I needn’t remind you about last month’s raid on our tertiary headquarters in Surrey.” His blue eyes saddened. “The fallen shall be gravely missed, but it must be acknowledged that their deaths were not in vain. If Tom were less gifted, I have no doubt that more lives would have been lost on that evening.”

Tom didn’t flinch when Harry and Ron jerked their heads in his direction. He was eerily stoic.                   

Dumbledore clapped once, interlocking his hands as if in prayer. “Which is why he has been chosen to begin a new commando. And you two, for your success with identifying the Ministry’s House-Elf breeders, have been chosen as executives of this commando. When necessary, Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood will serve beneath you, but mostly they will continue their medical training.”

Looking dumbly between Ron—who grinned widely—and the nearly expressionless Tom, Harry smiled.

Finally.

*** 

The Great Barrier was the first of its kind in history.

Other grand walls were designed to keep enemies out;

Other curses were created to keep enemies away.

The High Minister had other plans.

***

**Summer 2009**

Time spent training with his new commando was an intense affair between adrenaline and exhaustion. Mr. Meticulous Tom was a drill sergeant unrivalled by Harry’s previous instructors: fifty push-ups, fifty spells, forty squats, forty spells, again and again. One error from one person, and he’d tack on extras. No special treatment for the girls when they came around, either. Perhaps Tom’s sole redemption was that he performed alongside them each command he belted, sweat cascading down his fine face, shorts screwing up two long legs.  

Near the end of their sessions, when the team wound down and got to know each other, the conversations felt nearer to camaraderie than anything professional. It was not within his comfort zone to speak too freely about himself—they likely all knew his story, anyway—and so he played the part of active listener.

“I love Tottenham,” Hermione told Tom as she unlaced her boots.

“Really?” he replied skeptically.

Ron snorted. “Yeah, ‘Mione’s got a rich Muggle family, so she’s keen on helping poor blokes like us.”

“Honestly, Ronald!” she huffed, whacking his arm with her dirty sock.

“Actually,” Luna chimed in, unbraiding a flower stem from her blond mop, “Tottenham’s a pretty nice place for finding Humdinger eggs.” She frowned. “Or it was, at least…”

The harsh bare bones of London did not permit frivolous friendships; there were few people you could trust, and even fewer people you could _trust_. The revelation came in 1957. Days after the harshest snowstorm in the nation's history, a broadcast hit the British airwaves with the brunt of an avalanche. A man, graying at the crown, spoke through his German tongue of a world beneath the Muggles' noses. No one could have known what he intended, or that his extensive incanting would encage the magical population. He split their small community into thirds. There were those who were cowardly and opportunistic enough to follow his lead. There were those who hid, shielding their magic, pretending. And then there was Harry's lot, those who defied.

The persistent threat of wondering who fit in where, who would betray their secrets, was a weight that never subsided. 

Harry knew Ron was an exception to his paranoia. His whole family were blood-bound members of Dumbledore's secret rebel society: the Order of the Phoenix. The bright freckles dotting his long nose remained a fixture in Harry's life since he was a teen. Luna and Hermione, too, were good allies. Luna, much like himself, lost her mother to the cause, and Hermione was brought-up by another Order member when her parents left their frightening witch-of-a-baby for adoption. There was something about Tom, however, that made him less likable. Maybe it was his too-pretty face, or his unreadable black eyes, or the grace he exhibited when Harry and the others were on the verge of vomiting their lunch.

“I’ll have you know I wasn’t poor,” Tom said, his tone a joking exaggeration of the posh affect. “I was _economically disadvantaged_.”

Harry didn’t need to like him, of course. Dumbledore entrusted Tom to lead, and Harry was a soldier, not a bloody teenager. He’d take his orders, play his part. What else could he do? There was no time to second-guess him. Each week it was a new mission, passed down from Dumbledore, spoken in Tom’s gentle baritone.

_Mission One: Take out the blond wand-wielder on 42nd street._

On that day, it seemed Ron and Harry were merely there for shits and giggles because, as it turned out, Tom was a fucking monster. Before the Minister’s Knight had time to check the footsteps on his right, Tom was at his left, and the git’s scrambled brains were smeared like roadkill on the cobblestone path.

“Maybe we are strongest at the Dark Hour,” Tom deadpanned with his weird brand of humor.

_Mission Five: Poison the Vincent 47 chateau in Dolores Umbridge’s cupboard._

Harry felt a bit more useful then (thank Merlin for Mum teaching him how to brew wandless potions as a boy). There wasn’t the slightest whiff of security around the premises. Ron was in-and-out within a couple of minutes, leaving the Minister pawn with her ticking time-bomb of a draught.

_Mission Eight: Intercept a letter addressed to Lucius Malfoy._

That was when Harry learned Tom could use the Imperius Curse.

Without an incantation.

_Mission Twelve: Steal the scroll from Unit #904 on the fourth floor of the Hoch Tower._

When they found themselves trapped, five-on-five, in the lobby next to the elevator, it was again Tom who saved their lives. Just as Harry lifted his weapon, the room filled with dark, nubilous vapors, dissipating the bright streams of spells cast by the Knights. He followed Tom’s orders (“Stay still!”) and stood, irrelevant, as Tom proceeded to mutilate the Minister’s men, one by horrified one.

The smoke settled at the end of it, revealing a mess of entrails and torn flesh and the ghost of cold, tortured screams.

_Mission Twenty: Sneak into the High Minister’s Ball. Gather intel on the Malfoys, the Burkes, and the Yaxleys._

And that was the mission that changed it all.

On that night, when the full, round moon watched over the city, Harry took the first of many steps he could never take back.

The ballroom at the High Minister’s palace was exquisite. Gold trimmings inched up the finely embossed walls, matching the beaded chandeliers and thick, plush drapes. The vast cove ceiling, anachronistic and brilliant, muraled English history with the Tudors and Shakespeare and Thatcher painted softly in intricate transition.

The occasion inspired a spark of apprehension. The rebels wear black masks when on duty, the symbol of their movement. If they were discovered here, their faces would be out in the open, probably plastered around London along with the other undesirables within days. But there were so many people in attendance, adorned in ball gowns and black tuxedos, it seemed unlikely that they would receive attention. Luna gamboled serenely in pink satin. Hermione’s usually bushy mop was tamed and plaited. If Tom was absent, Harry might’ve even considered Ron’s plain mug to be good-looking on this night.

Tom, however, wasn’t the handsome bloke who complemented those around him. He instead made everyone else duller, less interesting. In a single-breasted suit tailored perfectly to his long, lean frame, he moved with grace between the debutantes and city officials, as clean and as crafted as a man could hope.

“Your name?” requested a high voice unexpectedly near to Harry’s face. He raised a brow and turned his attention to a green-dressed girl, who dangled her hand expectantly between them.

“Er, James,” he lied, shaking her hand awkwardly. Upon seeing her bemused expression, Harry realized she expected him to kiss her hand, at which point it was too late.

“Well, how do you do, James?”

She wore an arrogant smile that Harry didn’t much like. Still, he managed a grin in return, channeling a shade of Tom, who now danced across the ball with a toadish hobbit of a woman. This girl, pug-faced and thin as she was, was a right sight better than Tom’s pick.

“I’m alright. I, uh, like your dress.”

“Thank you,” the girl giggled. “And the name is Pansy by the way. Pansy Parkinson.”

Parkinson? A wizarding name. For what reason would she approach him of all people, and with such confidence? He stiffened, treading forward with extreme caution. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Parkinson. May I ask why you chose to make my acquaintance? Perhaps we’ve met before?”

“Oh, you’re so provincial,” she snorted, stepping off balance and catching herself clumsily. “Can’t a young woman approach a handsome young man without the assumption of politics?”

Not dangerous, then. Drunk. Drunk _and_ ugly. What a combination.

“My apologies, Ms. Parkinson. I’m not much of a political man, really.”

“Is that so?” she questioned, doubtful. “Is that why you won’t give me your family name?”

“Thomas. James Thomas.”

Behind them, the small orchestra switched from the upbeat, dancing tune to a slower arrangement that eased him into a sense of comfort. Expensively garbed bodies and perfectly plucked faces surrounded him and Parkinson. With the help of temporary Scar-Away Salve, Harry appeared their equal on the surface—a testament to the meaninglessness of good looks. Beneath it all, he was a rebel and this was a woman who wanted him dead, whether she knew it or not.

She was a traitor to her people; a murderer. Still, she grinned as though she was a normal person.

Bitch.

“Please, James. You’re no Muggle. I could sense your magic across the room. It’s very… distinct.”

Never once did Harry hear of wizards sensing magic, but he could sense _something_. There was something inside her that he needed, a safe waiting to be pried wide open. He reached carefully for her waist, tilting his head to appear charmed by her observation. Harry was rubbish with women, sure, but he was damn good at his job when he needed to be.

“What does it feel like, may I ask?” He leaned in.

Her thick perfume smelled of pure opulence.

 _Bitch_.

“It feels like… danger.” Her small hands reached around his shoulders, linking at the nape.

“Danger? Interesting. What kind of danger?”

“You’re a rogue, are you not?”

His green eyes narrowed. “A what?”

“Well,” she snorted, “I’ve never seen you around before, and I’ve been a Knight since I turned sixteen. I assume you’re in the High Minister’s special forces.”

“Are you accusing me?”

A deep laugh escaped her almost manically. “Of what? Of being more important than us lowly Knights?”

“I told you, Ms. Parkinson. You’re mistaken. I’m just a Muggle.”

“Bloody hell, Pansy!”

Harry turned, catlike, to the affected voice calling to his right—just quick enough for his nose to clash painfully against the shoulder of a rather tall blond.

The man ignored Harry and gripped Pansy’s wrist, shouting, “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Pansy?!”

If there was one thing Parkinson wasn’t, it was a damsel; her scowl and defiant smirk spoke novels. Which made it fabulously daft of Harry to intervene, and yet…

“Lay off her,” Harry said lowly, stepping between the two. The tense weight of watching spectators fell, one by one, onto the scene. The blond man flitted two gray eyes at their direction then, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth the attention, withdrew from Parkinson.

He stiffened his lip. “And you are?”

“His name is James!” Parkinson giggled.

A white-blond brow perked. “James?”

“James Thomas,” Harry finished. “And you?”

The man’s indignant inhalation pulled Harry’s lips into a smirk. “Malfoy, obviously,” he grumbled, looking affronted at the very idea that someone didn’t know who he was.

“Forgive me,” Harry apologized. “Draco Malfoy, is it?”

“Hmph,” Malfoy voiced, turning again to Parkinson, but not before eyeing around to ensure they no longer held an audience. They didn’t. “And just what were you trying to do, Pansy?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fuck Mr. James Thomas. Obviously.”

“I’ll, er, be on my way, then,” Harry muttered, setting off for the thick, blond mess of Luna’s hair peeking through bodies near the wine table. 

“And why so quickly?” Malfoy spat.

Parkinson clapped. “Ooh, is there going to be a fight now?”

“No,” Harry said sharply. “Please, Mr. Malfoy, I’m just a Muggle. I have no desire to fight. Your girlfriend approached me, and I wasn’t aware she was taken.”

“She’s _not_ my girlfriend! She’s my _fiancé._ ”

_Then for what reason was she tramping around, you bloody tosspot?_

“Please,” Harry pled, “I really just—”

The force of a thunderous _BOOM!_ threw Harry to his knees, knocking the round-rimmed spectacles from his nose and into the blurred, brown clouds of dust and debris. _Shite._ He closed his eyes and attempted to summon them back, but quickly became too panicked to concentrate, distracted by the cacophony of screams and stomping rush of hectic feet. His heart drummed nauseatingly in his ears as he covered his mouth with the hem of the suit, rising with caution against waves of fleeing elites.

_BOOM!_

This round, Harry managed to stay on his feet, giving him the opportunity to sprint aimlessly with the crowd. He couldn’t see much, but he could discern where the others fled, shouting all the while for his glasses in the hopes that, just maybe, they would join with him again. The world was a mess of black and brown with vibrant smears. Compromised by the deafening blast of the explosion, his hearing faded out and a reedy buzz grew over the havoc, louder than the rapid pace of blood.

_Rinnng._

“Potter!”

The room darkened, spot by spot.

“Potter!”

His legs collapsed.

"POTTER!”

 _Rinnnnng._  

***

Deep red hair flew with the breeze, little strands stark against a calm sky. Lily swept them behind her ear and peered down, smiling. She was as clear and warm as the peak of June, as natural and tender as the flower for which she was named. She called his name in a voice so smooth it thawed the center of his chest. Harry longed to reach for her, touch her if he could.

No. He wouldn’t let himself. Lily was dead, and this was an illusion.

“ _Harry._ ”

Dreams were not for men like him. They were distractions that coiled in your gut. Gave you hope. Tempted you to breathe when the noose was strung taut.

“ _Harry._ ”

He shook his head.

“ _Harry._ ”

“I’m sorry, Mum.”

His green eyes closed slowly, remorsefully. 

***

_Rinnnnng._

Harry awoke to the high whistle of a tea kettle, his vision out of focus, ears searing red hot. Ache had not long burrowed in his bones, but otherwise, he lacked a sense of time. He reached for his poniard with caution.

"You’re safe.”

Tom.

“Try not to move,” he continued, his vague blur approaching closer, the subtle jut of his nose getting clearer. "These are magicked, so they should work." He placed a familiar object in Harry’s hand, glasses.

Harry pushed them on immediately, looking around with the curiosity of a newborn babe. They were in a flat not unlike Harry’s own, small and under-furnished, though somehow more pristine; it was in the fold of the drying towel by the sink, the even distribution of spices along the window. Modest but _exact_ ; it was Tom’s place for sure. But why was he here?

 _Rinnng_.

“Ah,” Harry grunted, grabbing his ears protectively. Memories pieced themselves together at once—the ball, the bombing, the slow blackout. “The others! Are they OK? What happened to them? What the bloody fuck was that all about?”

“Shh,” Tom soothed placing two steaming teacups on the table beside Harry. “I’m not sure. Dumbledore has been alerted. I attempted to find them, but I didn't have time. After I grabbed you, another bomb went off. I trust you understand.”

“Why did you grab me? Why not one of them?”

“Hmm,” Tom hummed, tapping an overlong finger on his chin. “Because you’re so unbelievably handsome, I suppose.”

“What?”

“You were the only one I saw. I was watching the debacle with you and Malfoy when the damn thing detonated. If it _was_ a detonation, that is. Nobody’s certain. No casualties have been reported yet, so perhaps that should be counted for something. Muggle news credited us, of course.”

“Us?”

“The rebels,” Tom clarified, lifting tea to his lips and sipping moderately. “We’re not being personally profiled… At least, not yet.”

“And what do you mean by that, exactly?”

Tom’s porcelain cup met its plate loudly. His dark eyes, intent, were set dead on Harry. “May I ask you something personal?”

“Like…?”

“The night your parents attempted to smuggle you out of the barrier, did they enchant you?”

Confusion struck Harry at once. He raised a suspicious brow. “Er, I’m not sure. I was only seven. And you didn’t answer my question! Why did you say _‘yet’_? Are we at risk?”

 _Knock._   _Knock._

"Hm," Tom hummed, looking pensively at the front door.

"What is it?" Harry asked anxiously, sitting up and clenching the handle of the poniard. "Who's there?"

"Opportunity has come knocking, it seems," Tom said simply before pacing toward the kitchen and picking something off the counter. Harry's eyes narrowed on the object as Tom turned back toward him. Between the thin, spidery fingers was a sliver of brown wood.

 _A wand_.

"Blimey, Tom!"

"The Ministry, corrupt as it is, has a three knock rule, which means you have about three seconds to make a decision." Tom tapped the wand against his face questioningly. "Are you in, or are you out?"

"That's the Ministry?!" Harry whispered, aghast.

_Knock. Knock._

"Well?"

Harry stared at Tom as though he was the main attraction at a freak show. Nevertheless, he nodded rapidly, barely able to think, supposing that anything Tom prepared is better than starring in the next public execution. In a beat, Tom leapt across the room, striking like a snake and pinning Harry to the couch. The next sensation was one he felt before—a hook gripping his navel and tugging him into an uncomfortable tube, squeezing him through a loop and delivering him, at Tom's unpredictable whim, anywhere that wasn't  _there_. He opened his eyes to a world of green pastures, cows grazing in the distance. The outskirts of London.

He glanced askance at Tom, whose lip was wedged between his teeth. "Care to explain anything now?"

"I should ask the same of you two," spoke a gruff voice from behind. 

A round, wooden tip prodded Harry at the nape of his neck. 

Oh, fuck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm experimenting with a new style here. I'd be happy to know what you think of it.
> 
> Edit (01/06/18): This was originally intended to be a three-shot, but because I got busy with other projects, I'm leaving it at a...disappointing?...one-shot. I may return to it one day. For now, I'd rather mark it finished.


End file.
